Passion for the Heist, page 25
For the most part, Pain kept to himself. The other parolees and misfits weren’t quite his cup of tea. There was one dude he became somewhat friendly with. They called him Sauce. He was a lanky kid who hailed from North Carolina, but had done time in New York for burglary. He had been working for Mr. Carson longer than any of them, so he knew the ins and outs better than most. Upon picking his brain, Pain discovered that Sauce was a genius at hacking alarm systems. He had gone to school to be an electrician, but got sidetracked by the need to put food on the table for his mother and little sisters back home. Sauce had been part of a team of heist men who tried to take off a jewelry store, but ended up being caught when the lookout got caught slipping and let one of the police get the drop on them. Pain knew all about going to prison over someone else’s fuckup, so they bonded over that. It was from Sauce that Pain learned the junkyard was a front for a chop shop that Mr. Carson was running. He had a crew of amateur car thieves who would bring in stolen vehicles during the wee hours of the night, which the mechanics and body guys would strip down for parts to be shipped off to God knows where. Sauce claimed to make decent money on the side helping flip the stolen cars, and even offered to put a good word in for Pain, but he declined. Pain was just there to work his hours and present his PO with a check stub. Nothing extra.
Into his second week of working for Mr. Carson came the day Pain had been waiting for: payday! Through all the slaving, slick, borderline racist remarks from Mr. Carson, and treatment that certainly violated every labor law imaginable, Pain had managed to hold his head and not crash out. His reward was finally at hand. When the girl who worked for Mr. Carson came around handing out the envelopes containing the paychecks, Pain was hyped. His hands trembled with excitement when she made it to him. Pain found himself a private corner where he could savor the milestone accomplishment of his first paycheck. The fact that it came from doing something honest filled his chest with pride. He hadn’t expected it to be much, because it was barely a minimum-wage job, but it was his. At the very least he’d be able to buy himself a couple of pairs of pants, maybe some shirts, and put some food in his granny’s fridge. These were small things, but at the time they meant a great deal to him.
When Pain slid his paycheck out and his eyes landed on the dollar amount, all the joy and happiness he had been feeling immediately melted away. He scanned the check a second and third time before turning the envelope upside down to see if there had maybe been something else in it? There wasn’t. Pain wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew math better than most and his check wasn’t adding up. His first instinct had been to flip. One thing Pain didn’t play about with was his paper. He had laid cats for less, and just as serious as he was about his money in the streets, it would be so in the working world. Then he thought about it. That wasn’t how things worked. If he wanted to function in this new system of being a square, he had to play by its rules. If anything, it had probably been a clerical error because he was new and a conversation with Mr. Carson would get it sorted out.
Pain was hopeful when he stepped into Mr. Carson’s office. The fat man was sitting back, sipping a tall can of beer with a straw, and watching something on his phone. Porn likely. When he saw Pain, he put the phone down and gave him his attention. “What’s up, Wells?”
“Hey, Mr. Carson. I got my first paycheck.” Pain held up the envelope. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Wells. You’re a hard worker, and I appreciate that. If we have five more like you then I’d be running a well-oiled company instead of a revolving door for felons and fuckups. No offense,” Mr. Carson said apologetically.
“None taken,” Pain assured him. “So, I was looking at my check and these numbers seem off. I’ve been working five days at twelve hours per day, sometimes more, at eight bucks an hour. I’ve worked here nearly two weeks, but there’s only four hundred dollars here.”
“And?” Mr. Carson asked, as if he still wasn’t sure what Pain was getting at.
“Well, I’m about five hundred dollars short.”
“You sure? Let me see that.” Mr. Carson took the paycheck from Pain’s hand and examined it. He pulled out a brown plastic calculator and started punching numbers with his pudgy fingers. He stared at the figure in contemplation as if finally realizing his mistake. “You know what, Wells? You’re right. These numbers are off. I actually paid you thirty bucks too much. Since you’re such a good worker, don’t even sweat it. Think of it as sort of a bonus for having such a good first week.” He handed the check back to him.
“Bruh, if this is your idea of a joke, I’m having a hard time finding it funny,” Pain said, feeling his patience slip. It was short money, but it was his and he needed it.
“Nah, bruh,” Mr. Carson mocked him. “This ain’t no joke. Obviously ain’t nobody explained to you the finer points of how this here arrangement works. See, employing boys like you comes with its fair share of risks. No risks are without their necessary rewards. We take a small taste off the top for our troubles. Think of them as taxes. The first bite always stings the worse, but from here on out it’ll only be a nibble. You’ll hardly miss it.”
Pain just stood there glaring at the man in disbelief. He was running a line of bullshit down to Pain and expecting him to smile and accept it. “Fat man, I ain’t never been extorted a day in my life and we ain’t about to start now. You got me fucked up.” He started toward Mr. Carson, but froze when he produced a gun.
“Let’s not turn a mountain into a molehill.” Mr. Carson waved the .22 at Pain. “I’ll bust a cap in your ass and claim you tried to rob the joint. Who you think they gonna believe?”
“This is some bullshit!” Pain fumed.
“No, this is the game. I didn’t make the rules, but I’ll be damned if I don’t cash in on them. Now you can get this money like it’s coming to you, or quit and run the risk of your PO sending you back to the can over this shit.”
“I don’t think quitting a janky-ass job counts as a violation of my parole,” Pain challenged. Ms. Day was a bitch, but even she couldn’t hold him accountable on this one.
“It might when your PO is also getting a cut,” Mr. Carson said, much to Pain’s surprise. “Like I said, Mr. Wells. I didn’t make the rules, I’m just cashing in on them.”
Pain left Mr. Carson’s office feeling like a sucker. The fat white man had pretty much told him to his face that he was getting extorted and dared him to do something about it. Blackbird would’ve probably shot the man for his show of disrespect, or at the very least broken his jaw, but all Percy could do was swallow his pride and leave the office with his tail between his legs and his check still short.
Going out like that made Pain physically ill. So much to the point where he barely made it out of the subway station before throwing up all over the sidewalk. People gawked as they passed him, hunched over with hands breached on his knees as he continued to dry heave. He could only imagine what he must’ve looked like, but in truth he didn’t care. Mr. Carson had stripped away the last bit of pride he had brought home with him from prison. After a time, Pain was able to compose himself enough to stand with the confidence that there was nothing left in his stomach to expel. He turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a store window. It was like seeing himself for the first time, and he couldn’t say that he was happy with what stared back at him. On the outside, he was still Pain … still that dude. But on the inside, there was something missing. He couldn’t see the part of himself that made him who he was, if that makes sense? Trying to navigate the new world he had chosen to explore was weighing on him. Pain was trying to do everything right, but it felt like he was the only one playing fair. From his crooked-ass parole officer to the crackheads still gaming his grandma, everyone had an angle. He was not opposed to change, but at what cost? One thing that became clear to him that day was, the life he was trying to create for himself couldn’t be achieved without some help from the life he had left behind. Pain took his four-hundred-dollar paycheck and gave it one last look before crumpling it up and tossing it into the nearest trash can.
* * *
When Pain reported for his shift the next morning, he found the place in an uproar. Mr. Carson was waddling back and forth between his office and the junkyard, raging about something. It was the most Pain had ever seen the man move since he had been working there. He found Sauce standing off to the side with a few of the other mechanics, watching Mr. Carson’s meltdown.
“Sup with the fat man?” Pain asked, taking up a position next to Sauce.
“Shit, man. It’s all bad,” Sauce said in his drawl. “Somebody broke in here and rode off with some shit that was already paid for, feel me?”
“Damn, any ideas on who did it? I know he got cameras all over this muthafucka.”
Sauce shrugged. “I ain’t fosho, but I know ol’ boy been giving muthafuckas the pink slip all morning over it. Only reason my ass ain’t on the block is because I happened to be in Brooklyn handling something else for him at the time. I’m happy for that, because I need this little bullshit job to satisfy my PO.”
“You ain’t never lied.” Pain gave him dap and then headed in Mr. Carson’s direction.
Mr. Carson was in the middle of a profanity-laced tirade the likes of which Pain hadn’t seen before. “What?” he snapped when he noticed Pain. The vein in his forehead was so far popped out that it looked like it would bust at any second. He was clearly having a terrible morning, and little did he know that Pain was about to make it worse.
“Ain’t nothing, boss. I’m good, but you stomping around like somebody stole your girlfriend.” Pain faked concern.
“Worse, they stole my product. Couple of guys crept in here last night and snatched two cars that I was supposed to be holding onto for somebody. Little fuckers think they’re slick, but I got them on camera. They think because they were wearing masks, I won’t find out who they are, but they got video experts for this kind of shit. I’m gonna spare no expense to find out who did this!” Mr. Carson vowed.
“Well, maybe I can save you a few coins. I was one of them,” Pain revealed.
Mr. Carson’s face froze as his brain made sure that it was correctly processing what Pain had just said to him. “You took my shit.”
“I sure did,” Pain confessed. “You got a good thing going on here, Carson. Could be better, though. That being said, me and a few of my guys decided to help start the process of making improvements by doing a little housecleaning.”
“You ungrateful, piece of shit little nigger! I give you a job and you repay me by stealing? I’m gonna kick your ass and then have Ms. Day throw your ass back in a fucking cage, just where you belong!” If Mr. Carson had been angry before seeing Pain, he was ballistic after. His figure loomed imposingly over the smaller Pain, like some great beast about to devour a lamb. But then something unexpected happened.
Pain’s response to Mr. Carson’s threat was an open-hand slap. It wasn’t just a regular slap, but one he put his hips into and which empowered his palm with all the rage that had been mounting in him since coming home from prison. Mr. Carson blinked twice before collapsing over his desk, knocking it over and spilling the contents onto the floor. “Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?” He stood over Mr. Carson and drew his hand back as if he were going to hit him again, causing the man to cringe. Pain now had his attention and his heart.
“Boy, have you lost your damn mind?” Mr. Carson held his jaw and stared up at Pain fearfully.
“Nah, man. I’ve actually found it,” Pain said with a sneer.
Mr. Carson scuttled to the overturned desk and snatched one of the drawers open. His hand searched frantically inside for something that wasn’t there.
“You looking for this?” Pain produced the .22 Mr. Carson had threatened him with the day before and pointed it at him. “I took this too when we came in here and robbed you.”
“Don’t kill me!” Mr. Carson raised his hand fearfully.
“I’d thought about greasing your ass just for playing with me and my bread, but then I got to thinking. You’re worth more to me alive than dead. At least right this second.”
“What do you want?” Mr. Carson asked, uncertain that he wanted the answer.
“Let’s start with a little respect.” Pain lowered the gun. “And we can end with a piece of the action. Like I said, you got a decent little thing going on, and with my help we can really pull a few dollars out of this dump. I got a crew of young niggas who can run more cars through here faster than your guys can hack them up. And I’m not talking about the bullshit you’ve got sixteen-year-olds snatching off random street corners. I’m talking about some high-end whips. The best part is, this little arrangement is just between us. No need to cut your partner, Ms. Day, in on what we got going on. Let her keep eating off that saucer. I’m offering you a plate.”
This got Mr. Carson’s attention. The cars that came through his yard weren’t always the highest-end, but it was all profit to him. He made enough money to keep his head above water from the current inventory they bought in, but he could be making a lot more with the kind of cars Pain would bring in. Still, what if this was all bullshit and Pain was just trying to get back at him for taking his money? “Bullshit, Wells,” he said. “For all I know you’re just some ex-con trying to run a game on me, or worse, a snitch trying to jam me up.” For all he knew this could’ve been a plan orchestrated by Ms. Day to see if he would be willing to cross her or not. It wouldn’t be the first time she tried to send one of her snitches at him. The greedy bitch was always testing him.
“Blackbird,” Pain corrected him. At first Mr. Carson didn’t understand, but then a light of recognition went off in his head. “Your face tells me you’ve heard the name. You’re a thief, and there isn’t a thief in this city who isn’t familiar with the right hand of the Outlaw Queen. If you know my name then you know my pedigree. I’m good at two things: turning a profit off shit that don’t belong to me, and punishing my enemies. So, have I made an enemy this morning or a partner?” He extended his hand.
Mr. Carson studied Pain’s hand for a long moment as if he thought it may have been a trick. He was indeed familiar with Blackbird. They had never met personally before this, but he knew enough of the man to know that he wasn’t someone who bluffed. Mr. Carson looked from the extended hand to his office window, which gave him a view of the rest of the yard. He could see the men he employed trying to pretend that they weren’t watching. He desperately tried to establish eye contact with at least one of them in hopes that they’d come to his rescue, but he would find no heroes amongst that lot. He’d had his foot on their necks for far too long. With little other choice, Mr. Carson shook his hand.
And just like that, Pain was back in the game.
As a part of Pain’s new partnership with Mr. Carson, he would continue providing Pain with paystubs and kickbacks to Ms. Day. This would keep her out of Pain’s hair and away from their new side business. He was eating again.
Because Pain had never been one to dine alone, he invited Tyriq and Lil Sorrow to the table. They were the ones who had helped him snatch the cars in the first place, so it was only right that he allow them to eat from the score. They were in charge of supplying Mr. Carson with the cars he needed, and in exchange Pain would split whatever he collected on his end, fifty-fifty. Of course, Case balked at Pain’s generosity, pointing out that he could get the two youngsters to do the job for less than that, which was true, but Pain kept it at fifty-fifty. Part of the reason for this was because if he made the young men feel like they were vested in something instead of just hired help, they would work that much harder to protect their own interests. He was teaching them to be young bosses. Case didn’t get that, which is why Pain had always been the leader of their group and not him. Besides, it had never been about the money for Pain. For as long his trigger fingers worked, money would come. Pain’s hostile takeover of the chop shop had been about power.
* * *
“What you thinking so hard about, baby?” the female who had been sleeping next to Pain asked in a sleepy voice.
“The irony of life, love. That’s all,” Pain replied.
Lolo sat up, propping herself up on one elbow, and gave Pain a quizzical look. “Why do I feel like you always talk in riddles?”
“Nah, baby. I always say exactly what I mean. It only sounds like I’m speaking in riddles to those who don’t know how to read between the lines,” Pain told her. The look on her face said that she still didn’t get it, which was no surprise. Lolo was bad as hell, but that was about as deep as that well went.
* * *
Pain had lusted after Lolo from the moment he laid eyes on her in the sneaker store that day. Even after she had dismissed him like a common beggar, it hadn’t quenched the fire that burned in his crotch for her. Lolo tried to act like she was out of his league, but Pain knew better. There wasn’t a woman in the world that he didn’t believe he could bag, and she was no exception. She had been on his radar since he came home from prison, and if he wanted to get at her he would have to make it onto hers.
After the hostile takeover of the chop shop, there was no way Pain was going back to the life of a square. He had sampled that meal and found it too hard to digest. It was like Sonny had said in A Bronx Tale: “The working man is a sucker.” He jumped headfirst back into his old tricks with Case and the gang. He hated to admit it, but he was way more comfortable with a gun in his hand than a time card. Being back on the wrong side of the law made him feel alive again. He had rediscovered his passion for the heist.
Getting back in the game with Case felt good, but it wasn’t without its drawbacks. One thing that Pain learned was that time hadn’t made Case any less sloppy. He was still moving reckless in the way he broke the law. His crew was small and spread out all over the place, with their hands in a little bit of everything, so it made it hard for them to focus on one hustle. Pain changed that. The shooters he kept close; they rode out with them on armed robberies and heavy capers. Those who didn’t have the stomach for bloodshed he delegated to B&E jobs, boosting, or put them under Tyriq and Lil Sorrow with the carjacking operation. The drugs he entrusted to the few females who were loyal to them. Of course Case scoffed at this new arrangement. He was used to being hands-on in every aspect of the business so that he could watch everyone and count every dollar. It took some convincing, but Pain was finally able to get him to see the bigger picture. Dividing the crew up into groups according to their specialties allowed them each to focus on specific tasks, which brought in more money. In the few weeks since Pain had been back in the fold, the crew’s profits had noticeably increased. Everyone was eating. Better days were in their futures thanks to the changes Pain was making, and for the most part the soldiers were happy. But not everyone was as receptive to change. Pain would learn this sooner than later.
